Tangled Memories
by Hushabye
Summary: Sometimes people find their most cherished memories in extremely unexpected places. For Kat, that place is Patrick's hair.


**Title: **Tangled Memories

**Rating: **K+

**Summary: **Sometimes people find their most cherished memories in extremely unexpected places. For Kat, that place is Patrick's hair. OneShot. (Sort of.) Also, this is my first _10 Things I Hate About You_ fic, so be kind! Or at least as kind as possible.

**POV: **Kat Stratford's

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I'm about to seem extremely foreign right about now. Even to myself. But then again, I don't care what people think of me. I just do what I want when I want without a care in the world.

So here I go, doing what I want, without a care in the world. Anybody who thinks that what I'm doing is overrated, corny, or foolish can... well... to put it bluntly...

_shove it._

So there.

...To start this short tale off, I would just like to point out to Mr. Verona (if you end up reading this) that I'm only doing this because I love you. And your memorable hair. Even when I said I hated the way you cut it, I love it. I was just in denial before, but now a light seems to shine through your thick locks...

Once again, if anybody who is deciphering this thinks this is overblown, go read something else.

...Patrick Verona's mane holds many recollections for me and our relationship. Some of these memories are sappy. Some are romantic. Some are hysterical. Some suck. No matter the emotion during which the certain memory took place, my feelings toward his hair will always be mutual. No matter how hard he shampoos or how short he cuts it (which he would probably not want to do for awhile), it will never wash away or shave off our retrospects.

One of these forms of certain nostalgia was the first time we kissed. It occurred when we were throwing paint balls at each other. Beforehand, he had asked me if I was "up for it." Which, let's put it this way, I'm up for pretty much anything.

So there we were, paint-covered and anxiety-free, lying in a large mound of hay. He had thrown his goggles and before I could count to ten, he had brushed one of my own paint-drenched locks out of my eye and kissed me.

Even in the not possible way, it was, dare I say it, unblemished.

After attacking each other with more color a little while longer, we got dressed and went to my house.

As we talked on the porch, I had taken a mental note about his hair. It was blue, yellow, and red in the front. It reminded me of going to a carnival with blue cotton candy, a yellow sun in the distance, and clowns with red noses.

It was comical and beautiful. Two things that either made _no_ sense together or made all the sense in the world.

Retention number two all started (or ended in this case) at our senior prom.

After I had found out that he was being paid to take me out, he had smashed his lips against mine, thinking that that might somehow make it better. But it only made it worse.

As he kissed me for that split second, his hair had frivolously slapped my cheek. A particular sorrow had filled me. The kind that scoffed, "You'll never be able to run your hands through me or look at me or make out with my upholder without thinking of what he did to you."

So I had run away from him and that scoff as fast as I could muster because I didn't want to feel or think that way. I wanted to remember all of the good times we had shared. Not the emptiness that had seemed to cloud the atmosphere.

And that was the moment. The moment that I was running away from the only seemingly vile less man that I had had powerful feelings for that I realized I didn't hate him. The more I tried having that emotion toward him, the more I acknowledged loving him.

The last memory that I'm going to share (out of many, trust me) was on the happiest day of my life.

There I was, twenty-two-year-old Kat Stratford (I'm twenty-three at this very nano second, though), in an extravagant white dress. A small slit ran up to the beginning of my knee on the right side. Which is, thank God, my good side. A little cleavage was showing at the top, spaghetti straps securing the dress on me. The material was silky and snug. I felt as if I were glowing.

Then there he was, standing at the altar waiting for me. His smile when he saw me was priceless and seemed to make the whole church shine brighter than ever before. I've always loved the uniqueness of his wide grin. It made me feel giddy even when I _really_ wanted to be pissy...

Anyway, his tuxedo suited him (_ha! _Get it?) very well. Though the bow tie probably could've been left behind, he was handsome. As always.

But the hair part didn't happen until we were feeding each other our wedding cake. I just love telling about seeing one another and having the feeling of finally being a whole.

I had this idea while we swiped cake onto our fingers and fed some to our significant other's mouth.

It was simple and childish, but I was going to get the vanilla/chocolate on my index finger and head for Patrick's mouth, but instead of going all the way with it, I was going to smear it in his dark lion's mane.

It would be droll, right?

Well, yeah it was, but then he did it back.

Back and forth we went with the dessert in the hair until we decided we had had enough and so had our families. We locked lips then, our faces _and _curls overwhelmed with frosting and crumbly cake.

We had used five bottles of shampoo each before we could get that cake all the way out, but it was worth it.

Since I had had the idea of it all being smeared in my husband's hair, I knew that every time I would look at his curls, I'd be reminded of that day, many others, and many more I was sure were going to come.

God, I can't wait until we have our first child.

Opportunity is a strong word, boys and girls.

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**This short story is dedicated to the late Heath Ledger and his family, friends, and fans who stuck with him throughout his life and career.**

**Rest in peace, Heath.**

_**We'll all miss you and your memorable hair very much!**_

--

Emily

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_**P.S. Hope you liked it!**_


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